The Seeker's Journey
by TheNStorm
Summary: A spell to save the legacy of the Nine Bright Shiners, attracted by a child's cry for help, rewrites destiny. Will be novel-length, can't guarantee update frequency. No slash, and the rating is to be safe. Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended or consciously done here. No money is being made through the writing of this story.
1. Prequil

Prologue: In which Harry taps his toes and does some light reading.

_I'll sing you a song of times long gone  
when dark and light first met  
the dark and its Night gave way to light;  
and by Seven the Charter set  
fast to hold, to shape and mold  
magic and land and fall and step.  
Five into magic were poured quite tragic  
as life gave way for new life's bloom;  
Two remained there, fully aware  
woof to the Charter's loom.  
Tied to the land, in Kingdom they stand  
though once through worlds they flew._

-From Of The First, by Saral, Remembrancer and Chief Librarian

* * *

There are moments when, though unstoppable forces rage throughout the universe, though the great march of time continues undaunted to its final destination, everything rests on a single decision, made by a single being. At one such moment Harry James Potter sat alone, crying in the dark of his cupboard, hungry and in pain. Uncle Vernon, a thoroughly piggish man, had just finished another of his long tirades against 'The Freak,' whoever that was, and how in some way or other Harry's next three days of going without food would 'teach The Freak a lesson.'

In one world Harry would feel the crush of ultimate despair, and as a boy of seven he would for the first time wish for his own death. Then the rush of warmth and comfort offered to him by some unknown magics invoked by a dying mother's last wishes would flood him, give him a renewed will to survive, and he would start to feel mysteriously better. In this world Harry would grow up to fight an evil he had no real knowledge of, and by offering his own life for those of his friends he would triumph over the monster Tom Marvolo Riddle had become.

But in another world this tidy ending would never come to pass. In this world, for whatever reason, Harry did not succumb to despair. Instead the crying Boy-Who-Lived wished with every last shred of his being for some kind of help; any help would do, as long as it let him get better. With an imperceptible hiccup the universe subtly changed directions, derailing the plots of old men and evil spirits alike, and Harry's call was answered.

Harry had already cried the worst of his tears away and was down to just a few sniffles and little moisture around his puffy eyes, and where a little while ago he had begun to doubt that anybody would miss him if he were to just die something in him snapped back into place and a fierce gleam entered his eyes. Earlier, he had heard the Dursleys troop through the hallway next to his cupboard and out the door while saying something in cruelly loud tones about movie night. The house was quiet when a soft, high chime began to sound in his ears. The happy tone grew sharper and more defined, and Harry's feet began to tap as it sounded a little tune.

The melody spoke of dances, treks through rocks and hills and grass, of exploring places, just to know what they held; of dogs taking walks with their humans and untouched forests and rivers and all the places that Harry had heard about in conversations but never seen. Somewhere in the mystifying and beautiful song a point of light appeared above Harry's head, growing brighter and brighter until he had to close his eyes, then so bright that he saw it through his eyelids. Warmth coursed through him, and another voice joined the song; one which sang energetically of waking up each day to face the world anew, of the beauty of opening doors to see outside and bringing new sights to dreamers, of drawing still things to move with its wakeful tune. His feet were dancing now, and he didn't think he could stop them if he tried. Another voice joined, and another, and another. Voices sang their songs to Harry of sleeping, speaking, thinking, of binding strength and life and even of death, and all the while more points of light joined the first one, swirling in greater and greater numbers together to form what looked like a million strange symbols, all along the inside of his cupboard.

The light was intense and Harry wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he felt something inside himself responding to the song. Some little piece of Harry Potter was growing rapidly, drawing strength from the strange symbols that danced through the air in complicated swirls and lines, and it seemed to be pushing at something else inside of him. Then without any warning Harry felt the worst pain he had ever even imagined along the scar the Dursleys had told him came from a car crash, and the something in him pushed strongly and violently and he heard a brief scream of frustrated rage as his scar split open. A sour, bitter odor leaked out of his scar as it throbbed an ugly counterpoint to the music. The pain was unbearable and Harry sank into merciful oblivion, his feet still tapping to the cheerful tones of the Walking Song.

The next thing that Harry heard was the sound of his Aunt Petunia rapping angrily on his cupboard door.

"Get up! Get UP! It's time for you to use the loo and shower, and don't make a mess of things boy, or you'll be trimming the roses tomorrow!" Aunt Petunia had a nasty habit of making Harry do the gardening, and would always 'forget' to give him gloves when she made him prune her great, overgrown rose bushes in the back garden as a special punishment. Harry's fingers would always smart for a whole day afterwards, and the little thorns would itch wildly.

"Coming Aunt Petunia," Harry replied, and swung his feet over the thin plywood-and-cotton bed Vernon had installed three years earlier in his 'room.' He paused. Hadn't he just been punished? Why were the Dursleys already back from movie night? And what was that about music? As he struggled to recall Harry's eyes were drawn to a plain, dark, leather-bound book at the foot of his bed. That hadn't been there before, had it?

"Hurry UP, you stupid boy!" Harry sighed and opened his door.

Making his way toward the loo, Harry stopped to collect his allotted clothes and supplies for school in the morning—a ratty second-hand backpack, some lined notebook paper with basic addition problems done in sloppy pencil, and Dudley's hand-me-downs two sizes too big. He entered, washed, and had just started brushing his teeth when he noticed something shining at him in the mirror, and as he tilted his face this way and that he realized that a mark stood out high on the fair skin of his forehead. It was too faint to show too clearly, but every now and then as he tilted his head to one side or another a little glimmer of light shone at him. This of course threw Harry into a frenzy; he scrubbed at the mark, trying to get it off, and when that failed he brushed his fringe of hair forward only to see it spring back cheerfully into place. As his fingers brushed the mark Harry thought he heard the faintest hints of music, and something barely forgotten stirred in his mind.

"Hurry up, we don't have time for you to waste in front of a mirror boy!" That would be Uncle Vernon, then, and try though he might Harry couldn't delay any further. Necessities taken care of, he opened the door and attempted to brush past his looming uncle.

"What've you been about then? Answer me, boy!"

"Nothing Uncle Vernon, really!" His voice came out a high chirrup, half cut-off by fear and half excited by the prospect of the mark and the book, and the bits of memory that were starting to come back to him from earlier in the day.

"Been lazing about then, while we honest folk work for our keep? You disgust me, hear? Now get back to your cupboard!" With a heavy but slow-moving swipe in his direction Uncle Vernon waved Harry through the upstairs hall and down toward his room. Harry padded down the stairs and meekly closed himself in for the night, waiting with nervous tension as the family bedded down and the sounds of a settling suburban house lulled them to sleep. When he was certain the Dursleys were asleep Harry felt around at the head of his mattress for his second most-prized possession, an old flashlight Dudley had abandoned after only denting it once. Clicking it on, he shifted around to make a little room and grabbed the book from its resting place on the floor. He opened it, and noted that it seemed to be very old indeed, and that it was written by hand in dark ink. Flipping to the first page with letters on it, Harry was able to pick out the title: Free Spells and Charter Mages. He squinted and looked more closely at the tome, trying to make out a few more words under the flickering bulb and it seemed as though the book shivered slightly in his grasp. Harry started and the book seemed to slide from his nervous fingers, falling closed on his bed.

Opening the book proved more difficult than it would seem, as a warm silver catch pinned both covers together. At first the boy thought it might have been there all along, and simply closed when he dropped the tome, but when he examined it he realized that the catch had no keyhole. After a few dozen tries at regaining access to his book Harry had finally given up, stashed the book in that little space under the last step which Uncle Vernon never looked in, and faded off to sleep.

The next day he'd thought that he would have time for a little further exploration, but Aunt Petunia's after-school chores list seemed to have multiplied by itself, and he wound up not only pruning the rose bushes but also watering the lawn, washing both family cars, and cleaning up Dudley's second bedroom ("so Diddykins can store his new comic book collection!"). He managed to sneak a few scraps of food out of the immense supper he helped prepare for the Dursleys, but as he was technically still not allowed to eat his time was spent dodging his aunt, sneaking morsels of supper, and trying to work all at once. By the time he was let into his cupboard, starving and exhausted, there was little else on his mind but food and sleep.

Even so, as he was about to fade out of consciousness, Harry's thumb brushed past his forehead and that almost-audible chime sounded again. A brief thrill of warmth rushed through him and he somehow knew that last night's adventure in the cupboard was not just his imagination. Frowning in concentration, the Harry tried to isolate the feeling a little bit, and there in the darkened cupboard he somehow pushed his mind at the mark.

Instantly he felt himself connect strongly to the almost-music, and in his mind's eye he saw thousands of marks which glowed golden and warm. It was strange enough that were it not for the Dursley family being asleep he probably would've shouted out. Instead Harry removed his hand from the mark as quickly as he could and lay still, his heart thundering. He listened, frantically, for any sign that the brilliance and strange noisiness of the mark might have woken the family above him.

After a few minutes and some very still breathing Harry realized both that the family above him seemed deaf and blind in matters concerning the mark, and that he could see a faint glimmering light, coming from the spot where he had hidden the book. Softly orienting himself so that he could reach the leather-bound tome, Harry reached out and gasped when with a snick it opened to his touch. Carefully and greedily, the little boy reached over for his dented flashlight and took a peek inside his new third most-prized possession.

The first page swam with little marks, so many that Harry couldn't quite tell where one ended and another began, and as he touched the fine parchment-like substance he couldn't help but think that the whole book was made entirely of those symbols. His theory was further strengthened when the first page erased and rewrote itself with simpler-looking words and bigger, clearer letters to read:

_PREFACE:_  
_Though most Charter mages begin their studies of spell casting very early in life, it appears to the writers of this book that with Kerrigor's rise few remain in the kingdom with the necessary skill to teach student-magicians. Soon it may be impossible for newly-baptised adepts to call upon the spells necessary for even the most basic of Charter magic. This text will therefore provide the new mage with the theory and basic history of Charter magic, as well as an advanced primer in spell-casting and an index of common marks._

Harry, having worked very hard that day without much in the way of food, was dead at the wheel trying to focus, but he soldiered his way through one page-it was, after all, about magic. When he turned the page his eyes lit upon a set of the symbols-Charter marks, his mind supplied-which flared to life and seemed to weld his eyes open. Harry felt new energy seeping into him from that warm golden place, and when he looked at the page again the letters were back with their terribly adult words, and he still understood them. In a minute he turned the page, then the next and the next.

The book talked about the nature of magic, how it was bound up in what made things real, and how Seven Bright Shiners put themselves into a Charter to organize and contain the magic and build things that benefitted life itself. As he turned page after page he read of the basic spells a Charter mage could cast, of speaking them or whistling them, or even drawing them in the air with his fingers, and he learned a basic Charter alphabet consisting of nine symbols present in the most common spells.

Harry was quite aware that something was strange about his night. He was reading, more than he ever had before, and while he remembered a few of the things he read with perfect clarity- like how to tell a corrupted Charter mark from a pure one, or the first nine marks every mage knows-most of the information slid away from his thoughts like water down a drain. Little pieces remained, though, and they were enough to kindle in the young new mage a thirst for knowledge that would serve him all his life. In fact, Harry found that he didn't want to put the book down, even if he had been reading for what felt like days and days. This magic promised to be powerful, warm and safe, and comforting. It offered him protection and care that he had never felt before, and while his mind was absorbed in spell-fueled reading he could forget about the prickly thorns, aching stomach, and all the work he would have to do tomorrow. When at last the flow of information slowed and the book itself began to gently close of its own accord, Harry sighed.

Aunt Petunia's ugly ornamental clock was chiming two. Harry sat up and without noticing what he was doing whispered a mark into existence and the lock on his cupboard clicked open. Shocked but still not willing to let this opportunity slide, the boy clambered out of bed as quietly as he could and shuffled his way into the kitchen. Making sure no one was looking, he stole enough leftovers from that night's Sunday roast to fill his empty stomach and walked back to his cupboard, smiling softly. The book had paid off.

It seemed, however, that with this new exploration whatever spell the book had woven over him broke, and the accumulated fatigue of a long day's work and a mostly-sleepless night came crashing down on Harry in an instant. With a sad little groan, he barely remembered to stash the book in its hiding place before sleep claimed him again.

* * *

Author's Note:

Thought I might finally get to clearing our a few of the stories in my hard drive, and maybe even pick one up. If there's enough interest in this one I'll probably update a few times a month, otherwise... ehh. But I _Will_ finish this thing. Eventually.

Any comments are welcome, and I _love_ criticism. Especially if it's constructive.

Oh, and if you plan to use any of my work consider this an open invitation-just make sure that copy and paste is credited to me, and I would very much enjoy reading the stuff you post.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One: In which a scholar is born

_Wit beyond measure? Ha! As if real wit could be measured at all! No, if anything the famous and pithy sayings we attribute to the Founders only go to show that political influence is both more strongly felt and more likely to effect real, lasting change in the world than intellectual understandings.  
_-From a wildly popular series of lectures posted in the _Prophet_ by Simal Sideous, professor of Politics and Rhetoric at the Advanced Magical Institute, Salem, USA

* * *

_Contrary to popular opinion, Charter magic is not a series of symbols inscribed in some ethereal space which produce effects when called into reality. Instead, the Charter is an agreement between all the people and animals and things of the world—an agreement that creates dependency between all the things that are on the most fundamental of levels, and that is called into effect through the use of Charter symbols. This means that the Charter mage does not seek to create, per se, but to call out that which already is._

Harry paused. Then blinked, and slowly began to pick his way through the page in front of him again. The day hadn't gone so well for him after last night's reading session.

Aunt Petunia had been suspicious of him when she saw that the leftovers from supper had been so neatly broken into, and only the fact that his cupboard door was locked from the outside had dissuaded her from punishing her 'thieving freak' of a nephew. After helping with breakfast and sneaking a few strips of bacon and some toast when his family wasn't looking the exhausted Harry had walked to school.

While for the most part uneventful, Harry's day had been marked by the fuzzy thinking of a boy suffering from sleep deprivation. He had been reprimanded twice in class for nearly falling asleep, and the one time the teacher saw fit to call on him his bleary mind and tired eyes had made a right mess of his basic reading assignment and he'd scored very poorly for the day. To top it all off, Dudley and a few of his friends had cornered Harry in a secluded spot at the playground after lunch and taken turns calling him names and occasionally hitting him. It was a tired, hungry, angry little boy who made it home to number four Privet Drive in time to set the table for supper before being reminded that he was grounded until further notice for having been too lazy while the Dursleys were out the night before.

After managing a little sleep in between the tinny pitch of an evening news report on television and the commotion of Dudley's demands to be taken to another movie that night (interspersed with the Dursleys' gradual weakening to his demands and the sounds of jackets being zipped up and boots treading up and down the stairs) Harry had awakened to the sound of a slamming door, alone again. With the book, again. Now he sat on his bed, the bulb above him brightly shining as he struggled to understand the magic tome that was already starting to change his life.

Literally. The book was beginning to change Harry's mind in ways that he was already able to notice. He had really started to like reading in the past year or so, having used the few story books Dudley received (and promptly discarded) to learn about what life was like in stories, where the Great Dursley Menace didn't exist and the world was bright and cheery. He had started with the story of a very hungry caterpillar, flipping through pictures and picking out words, and then moved on through progressively more involved tales until recently he'd finished _Wind in the Willows_ all on his own. This book, however, felt different than his stories ever had. It was hard and complicated, and while he felt good whenever he understood bits of it, he was an observant enough boy to know that it was far above his level of comprehension. It almost felt as though new words were forcing themselves into his mind, and he was a little frightened of the not-entirely-pleasant feeling of unexpected understandings. Still, the book had proved useful, and the same chance to escape his less-than-pleasant life for new stories was offered in real-life here. He had to at least try.

And it seemed that when he concentrated the more complicated words in the book began to mean things, somehow, as though the book wanted to be read and understood. He was just about to start a section entitled "Pre-Charter History" when he heard a rapid tapping coming from just outside his closet. Switching the bulb off, Harry went still immediately and tried not to even think too loud.

The last time a neighbor had visited while the Dursleys were out he _had_ answered the door. He had just stood there while Petunia's nosiest acquaintance _(Mrs. Stephens will do, thank you dear)_ had relentlessly interrogated him with questions about where his guardians were and why he was alone in the house. Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon was just returning from work when Harry had started to answer. Harry's guardian had expertly sized up the situation, proclaimed the boy to be a runaway just now come back while everyone was looking for him, and chased off the for once well-meaning Mrs. Stephens. That was when Harry's family had started locking him in his cupboard when he was home alone, and he wasn't about to give them an excuse to come up with something nastier to do to him. Despite himself, however, Harry found his curiosity aroused when he heard his name.

"Harry! Harry, I know you're in there! Oh don't be like that, open the door already. Oh where is tha—ah ha!" The voice of Mrs. Figg, a batty old lady down the street who sometimes babysat him whenever the Dursleys decided that he wasn't grounded, filtered through a pair of doors to him most curiously. There was a clicking sound and, much to Harry's alarm, the front door swung open.

"There we are, and they say squibs can't do magic. I may not be able to wave a wand, but enchanted knives work just fine for my-Oh!" Spotting the locked cupboard, the matronly widow shuffled rather frantically across the entry to Harry's hiding place and, scarcely pausing to let the bolt, threw open the door.

"Harry! They didn't hurt you again, did they? I knew I should've checked in yesterday. Those horrid muggles are the worst sort I've ever had the displeasure of knowing! Why, in my day the Ministry would've already—" Without really stopping to consider her charge, his increasingly shocked state, or the no-doubt odd glances she might easily attract by leaving the front door wide open the rumpled Mrs. Figg had Harry out of bed in a trice. She drew from her tartan bag a strange wooden oblong which she passed over him in long, surprisingly steady swipes. Letting out her breath, she stepped back and seemed to first take notice of Harry's own rather rumpled state.

"How long've you been in there, anyway? I wouldn't put it past them to keep you locked up all day. And did you sleep in your clothes? Harry, dear! You might have it rough with these horrible people but that's no excuse to sleep so uncomfortably. Dreadfully unhealthy, and it rumples all your clothes!" She stared expectantly at him.

It took some time for Harry to work past his surprise and speak, and when he did it was with eyes as wide saucers and in the faint, stammering voice of the terribly surprised: "E-excuse me, Mrs. Figg, but w-why are you here?"

"Oh! Right. How silly of me," with a little chuckle the progressively odder-seeming neighbor drew what appeared to be a penlight torch, pointed it straight at Harry's forehead, and clicked it once. Memory flooded through Harry's mind, of conversations held in the lonely times when the Dursleys left him home, crying and scared, of laughter and tears shared between two people similarly isolated by life's own horrible circumstances. Mrs. Figg became Aunty Arabella, no longer (in the words of Uncle Vernon) "a batty old woman with more cats than sense" but now a poor old lady whose husband and son were dead, and who doted on Harry whenever she was sure they weren't being observed. The little penlight became an ominous, powerful tool for protection or destruction, and its frumpy wielder a guardian in every sense of the term. She had been caught in number four a few times with Harry, and through skillful memory-locking and guile avoided worsening either of their situations—leaving the Dursleys rather worse for wear.

After having his memory locked and unlocked so many times over the last few years Harry's reaction was dulled by experience, but he still felt his eyes mist over a little and with a sniffle launched himself toward the surprisingly solid Auntie Arabella.

"Oof! You've been getting bigger, lad. How's this week been then?"

"They've been getting worse Aunty, I've had to steal leftovers while nobody was looking. But I'll manage, I always do." Arabella hugged him closer, then, a little wistfully, released him.

"I'll have to see about getting you a few more nutrition potions, but in the meantime take this." She pressed a stoppered vial of some nasty-looking orange sludge into his hands and watched expectantly until he'd uncorked the cap, shuddered, and downed the lot in one go. "This'll keep your insides growing the way they should be, love, and—Oh!"

With a decidedly undignified squeak she began to root through her bag, producing with another exclamation what looked like surely the oddest book of children's stickers to ever exist. She hesitated in that way she had whenever she was preparing to do some magic and didn't know how much of it Harry should know about.

"Harry, dear? Do you remember when I said that it was possible to make a field of magic that made people do things" As Harry remembered it, he had been just struggling with his reading a few months ago when Mrs. Figg had come by for one of her visits to unlock his memory and chat a little and he had been so frustrated that in what was very nearly a tantrum he had expressed a little of his jealousy that _Dudley _had help with reading the words in easier books than the one he was trying to get through, and how he wished the Dursleys would at least help him _a little__._

Aunty had gone a little still at this, then, choosing her words carefully, had explained that if he really wanted more to do with the Dursleys she could probably manage to get them to help a bit. The following information-pump had eventually gotten her to reveal the existence of things called _wards_, which charged the air around them with magic and made certain things happen. Harry eyed the book of weird stickers with new found respect.

"Yeah, Aunty?"

"Well, I saved up a little and bought this set of runes, and I can make a bit of a ward up here for keeping the Dursleys in-line." Harry's face lit up like a thousand-watt bulb and if Aunty grumbled under her breath a little about "Albus-bloody-Dumbledore" and how he had neglected his duties in setting up protections he was sure _he_ didn't notice. Over the next hour he was able to watch as Mrs. Figg placed the oddest marks about the house—behind the lounge couch, at the threshold, and on the underside of the refrigerator, all the while chattering on about her's and Harry's weeks.

As they usually did, though, the visit from Aunty Arabella ended soon with the growling of the family's returning car. The smiling older neighbor looked in through Harry's cupboard door, penlight in hand, and bid him good night:

"Now, dear, those horrid Dursleys oughtn't be so bad to you. And don't mind if they're a little forgetful over the next few weeks, it's a side effect of the mood-magic I just installed about the house. I'll just be going then, good night!" She clicked the penlight and ambled merrily out the back of the house leaving a very confused Harry in her wake.

He remembered. That very minute, surrounded by the late-evening Dursley clan and its rush to bed, in the aftermath of Arabella Figg's departure when every other time he had felt a muggy, clammy sensation work its way from temple to temple as he forgot the details of her visits to him, he remembered _everything_ with stunning clarity. He remembered when first, as a four-year-old, he had encountered the older lady whose carpet slippers had made no noise at all as she sneaked through the back garden to help him trim rose bushes. He remembered her on-and-off visits over the next few years, her little improvements to his health _(Now drink this, I know it tastes bad but it'll help you past that nasty cough),_ and her frantic actions rushing him to a strange hospital where everybody wore dresses that one time Uncle Vernon had accidentally broken his arm while tossing him into his cupboard. Most importantly of all, he remembered a faint tingling on his forehead right just where the Mark sat, and the sound of an almost-voice, proclaiming its defiance. Like a single strain, pulled from the chorus of the night before, this chime argued passionately for freedom and flight. Though Harry was the only one who could hear it (else Aunty Arabella would most certainly have some back), it would not be silenced. It rang clearly through his skull, somehow managing to push back the fuzzy feeling the penlight had left behind. The two magics fought for control, each pushing against the other fiercely, and each grounded in Harry's very soul. Ultimately it was Harry who tipped the scales.

With a grunt, the last of the Potters screwed up his face and _pushed_.

"No. I _will_ remember!"

The magics broke apart suddenly, one dissipating entirely, and the other singing faintly through his mind, lapsing back into peaceful quiet with a few last energetic chimes.

"What was that, Boy? You saying something and disturbing our evening rest?" Harry jumped, heart pounding, and managed to get out a fitful "No, Uncle Vernon, sorry sir" before his uncle stomped over, wrenched the door open, and begun the bedtime routine prior to shutting him in for the night.

It was time, Harry resolved, to give that book a very careful read-through.

* * *

A/N: Short chapter this time. So many directions to go in, so few legs. 


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: In which Harry learns a little about independence

_"What is magic, to the wizard? To some of us, it is a force to be harnessed, a trial to be overcome, or even a toy to be enjoyed. In the simplest terms, however, it is none of these things. Magic is that which cannot be defined, and the wizard is a miracle—he brings shape and nature to the unnatured and formless. This is why wizards employ magic in so many unique and variable ways. To the political wizard magic is the sublime persuader, to the warrior wizard it is the heat of battle, and to the orphaned wizard it is hope, comfort, and love's guiding hand."_

-From The Adult Wizard's Primer on High Magic, by Den Dex

* * *

Arabella Figg hummed to herself as she exited the Dursley household. _"Well, I've done my good deed for the day. Now all that's left is to compose my report to the General and feed the kitties!"_

She would never admit it, but the soon-to-be elderly squib was beginning to lose a bit of her pep these days. Everyone knew squibs didn't live quite as long as witches and wizards (though few would mention such unwholesome conversation in polite company), and she was nearly seventy—almost past middle age! Still it was good, she reasoned, to be considered for such an important role as guarding little Harry by Dumbledore. One last job for the Old Crowd and she'd be off to retirement on some sunny beach with Mr. Tibbles and enough gin to drown in!

Sighing, she crossed the garden quickly and, making sure the coast was clear, vaulted over the back fence with the agility of a gymnast a quarter her age. Those tartan slippers weren't just for show, after all! She worked her way past a few layers of rune traps, tripwires, and concealed hundred-metre spiked pits, clambered as quickly as she could over the Seal of Judging, offered a few drops of blood in sacrifice to the intent-wards, and skipped up the remnants of her walking path to the back porch. Entering the sun room she looked at the clock and sighed. _"twenty-seven seconds, and with the defenses set on minimal protection! Bella, old girl, you've gone soft."_

Crossing over to a pleasant little floral-print desk she penned another note to Dumbledore, advising him that the Dursleys still kept Harry locked in a cupboard; and that on account of their having tried to starve the boy she had added a few minor wards to the house, compelling them to proper guardianship. She rolled up her parchment, setting it in a box marked 'Out,' and after making sure it disappeared on time (it was nearly ten o'clock after all) she bustled cheerfully over to the feeding tray and dispensed the next day's serving of Magicat_ (higher intelligence, compassion, and a more lustrous coat or your money back!)._

"Alright kitties, food for the morrow!" Only Mr. Tibbles had remained on watch for her, but he responded immediately with a cat's arrogant thanks.

"Mroaw!"

"Such a good kitty! Did anyone unusual come by?"

"Mrrr... Mraw."

"Oh, well we were overdue, I guess. I'll just see to the traps then. Thank you Mr. Tibbles, you stand relieved!" Arabella sighed. It was like this at least two or three times a month, and had been since the Dark Lord had failed to kill Harry.

Albus, knowing that the boy would be under constant attack and sought after by many for his fame besides, had conceived a truly ingenious plan. With a little magical nudging, the neighbors just a few houses down the street from the Dursleys had been 'convinced' that their house was haunted. A few calls made to old friends and Number 12 Privet Drive was in the ownership of Phoenix Ltd—the Order's Muggle face—and the plan could begin in earnest.

With the help of a few of the more trustworthy cursebreakers in the order, a special call to Gringotts' Warding Department, and some attention from Albus and the Death Stick, the most severe and powerful wards known to wizardkind now lay over the property, while Harry lay carefully concealed under wards that originated in the oldest and most powerful of love magics. A call to the Ministry to inform them that for his own safety the boy would be raised at an undisclosed location, slipping the name of the street to the minister "accidentally," and a quick note penned to Arabella had put the finishing touches on a powerful trap. Any Death Eater or sympathizer who made it past the information blackout, through Fudge's well-lined pockets, and onto Privet Drive would assume that Harry was being kept under the exorbitant and powerful protections surrounding Number 12. They would try their hardest to fight through only to find one of the Order's fiercest fighters laying in wait for them.

That was five and a half years ago. The droves of would-be assassins had tapered off from two or three each week to two or three per month. Of course, the fact that no assassin had yet to come back after assaulting the house might have had something to do with the decrease in attempts. In any case, as Figg now shuffled toward the holding tank where potential assassins whose intentions the wards judged uncertain enough to not merit immediate incineration, she thought that her role in guarding the young Potter might actually be coming to a close.

She would never suggest such a thing, but if the numbers of assassins sent after young Harry decreased enough that only one or two were coming 'round in a month's time, who would she be to deny herself some much-deserved time off? Whistling to herself, Arabella walked through a heavily-warded, darkened hallway and to a door simply marked "The Tank." Pressing a series of panels seemingly carved into the heavy steel, she spoke the pass phrase _(There's always a bigger fish)_ and entered an uncomfortably bright room.

The floors were painted white, the walls had been covered in cold steel, burnished mirror-bright, and lighting and environmental runes provided ambient brightness and temperature similar to the most cloudless summer day on the snow-covered slopes of a Turkish mountain. It was bitterly cold, blindingly bright, and harshly sterile. The squib walked carefully past a few of the boundary traps that circled the room, being careful to skirt the griffin-in-a-bottle trap_ (classic! Wonder which of the lads thought to place that one in here for this rotation?)_, and stopped at the first of three strange little rune-clusters which currently marked the otherwise pristine white floor. She drew from her voluminous handbag what appeared to be a bar of yellow soap, curiously marked with swirling patterns and what looked to be a set of glaring eyes. Setting down the bag, she took in her other hand a twenty-four ounce steel hammer. Eyes vigilant, she placed the soap-cake on a spot in the pattern and watched it dissolve, leaving its markings behind. The rune cluster glowed softly, chimed once, and disappeared, leaving in its wake a very disoriented looking man in dark robes. Moving faster than normal eyes could track, Arabella grasped him round the throat, slammed him into the second rune cluster (taking note as it started to glow a pale orange), and cleared her throat to get his attention.

"You broke and entered. I'll ask you once—and mark me, I'll know if you're lying—what were your intentions?"

The man's eyes were wild, and his frantic movements threatened for a second to break the squib's grip.

"I didn't know! We were just exploring a-and this is just a huge m-m-misunderstanding and how cou-" But it was no use. The rune set he was pressed into blared out a sharp tone, flashing orange. Arabella's eyes narrowed. Shoulders slumping a little the man broke down, the glimmers of a pure-blood upbringing showing through as his posture straightened.

"Alright, you caught me. I was here to break the wards." As the runes quieted down and darkened, it seemed that a measure of courage worked its way back into the man's dark eyes. "But you'll never catch us all! The Dark Lord will rise again and as soon as I get back from whatever ministry tribunal you manage to secure for me I'll just—"

"You won't. I'm sorry." Looking at her prisoner with as much sympathy as she could muster, Arabella watched as understanding dawned on the young face.

"So young, too. You will be remembered, boy, but I cannot let you live."

"No! NO! You can't just kill m—" The hammer swung down, its own simple enchantments breaking through the very expensive protections that had allowed a Death Eater assassin to make it this far and splattering red blood and dark hair across a spotless floor.

The remaining interrogation went rather more pleasantly. A Spanish witch had been on holiday nearby, and had simply been curious about the way magic lay heavily around the house. A quick application of her handy little memory-locking penlight (a Memlite 2000 she had received for Christmas from a niece who lived in America) and directions toward the nearest apparition point and the day's business was done. Cleaning and packing up her equipment, Arabella shuffled to the door, glanced sadly at the corpse, and, closing the door, hit the 'cleanse' button. Heat and light bled through the hall as the Tank turned into a furnace in an instant, immolating any evidence that the assassin had ever existed to begin with.

"Harsh times, though a sight better than the alternative" she whispered to herself, sinking into her favorite armchair and turning on the telly for some evening relaxation. The bag, ever close at hand, bleeped out a quiet warning.

"Oh! Right." Arabella pulled the penlight and several odd-shaped blocks of wood from her bag and, unrolling a mat on her coffee table, set them each in a perfectly-fitting socket.

"There. That'll charge you for morning. Goodnight dears."

As the widowed guardian of Harry Potter fell into a light doze in front of _Dr. Who_ reruns, she failed to notice the side of her Memlite as it blinked out twice in silent warning: Danger—Locked Memories Regressing.

* * *

Universal shifts are strange, subtle things. For instance, in one universe where Harry Potter cried out for help and was answered by the comforting presence of his mother's protection, the ensuing struggle between his own magic and that of an invading horcrux would have ended in a stalemate—and to be sure this is a far better alternative to the possible possession and later death that would have awaited him otherwise. However, as a result of the violence and depth of this struggle, the wards surrounding Number 4 Privet Drive became agitated. When, a day later, Arabella Figg placed wards of her own to prevent Harry's guardians from further abusing him, the blood wards over Number 4 promptly tore them down. Arabella, and thus Dumbledore, didn't seek to alleviate his situation because to their knowledge it was already taken care of and, eight years later, the professor didn't know the truth he spoke when he admitted to having doomed Harry to "ten dark and difficult years."

When, however, Harry's call was answered by an older and more esoteric magic than his mother's the protection was not invoked. The wards were not unsettled. Arabella's new warding, therefore, had time to settle in-place—and Harry soon started to notice a new and improved Dursley family.

Awaking to the sound of polite knocking on his cupboard door, Harry experienced the most surreal morning of his young life. There in the morning light, Aunt Petunia smiled warmly at him.

"Good morning Harry! Time to get ready for school. Now, hurry along or you'll miss breakfast."

"A-aunt Petunia! Is there something wrong?" Harry glanced uncertainly in his aunt's direction, looking for any sign that this might be a trap. He didn't think it was April first, and he knew he wasn't still dreaming (for he had pinched himself upon seeing Petunia smile).

"Nothing at all dear! Now come along, we've no time to waste."

From that moment on the day grew progressively weirder. Vernon didn't shout at Harry for oversleeping, and Petunia served him breakfast along with the other two members of her family. Instead of having to walk to a bus stop and ride to school, as was usual, Harry got to ride along with Dudley and Petunia.

At school, while he admittedly lost points for having missed his maths homework the last night (having been caught up in reading from The Book), his use of several new terms in English shocked his teacher, a normally unflappable ex-military type, speechless. It wasn't every day that a seven-year-old correctly used the word "interposition" in a sentence, after all. Still, at least some things stayed the same.

"Time to learn some respect, Freak!" Dudley, ever his father's son, picked out one of his favorite opening salvos for lunch break that day.

"Detention, mister Dursley! I'll not have such language used against another student, whether you were playing or not." Unfortunately for the young bully, the prefect on duty had already heard the usual excuses enough times that all it took was Dudley's pouting sycophantic "But—" to trigger an outburst. The prefect, beginning to develop a mid-term eye twitch, put his foot down.

"No. You will report to the headmaster, and explain to _him_ why I have given you detention."

_"This,"_ Harry thought with a sense of foreboding,_ "won't end well."_

When, however, the school day ended and Petunia drove pulled up to the curb the weirdness continued. Harry grew suspicious, then alarmed, then cautiously hopeful as his aunt's face took on a thunderous expression and she began to berate Dudley.

"Dudley Dursley! I have never been so disappointed in my life! You will apologise to Harry immediately!" Dudley, looking on at his mother with an expression of growing horror, mustered his defence as solidly as he could.

"But mum! The Freak was picking on my and my friends! It was only right I put him in his place, wasn't it?" This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Petunia drew herself up, carefully-sculpted eyebrows drawn tight across her face.

"You," the unspoken 'horrible child' was very nearly audible "are grounded."

The ride back was utterly silent. Petunia seemed to be waging—and losing—an internal war, as she grimaced most fiercely at passing traffic, the speedometer, and any pedestrians unlucky enough to cross the street in front of her. Harry and Dudley both sat in shocked silence.

It wasn't as though Dudley had never been punished. The Dursleys, having read through several of the Good Parenting texts available at the time had tried out several methods of carefully shaping and disciplining their offspring. Unfortunately, Vernon's own lack of discipline in everything from food to buying new cars had doomed the 'careful parents' approach from the start, while Petunia's inclination to support anything that put Harry down had made her much less likely to pay attention to any reports of bullying she might've heard from the boys' teachers at school. Now though by some miracle Harry's and Dudley's lives were improving. Figg's wards were, it seemed, _making_ the adults at Number 4 act like _adults_.

When the ride home ended Harry's time in the Twilight Zone continued as he found his cupboard clean and stocked with new bedding and a few clearly worn but serviceable and well fitting sets of clothes. It seemed that while equal treatment to the Precious Dudders was still a far-off dream to the young boy, the enforced parenting wards were able to compel at least the most basic of parental behaviours on the Dursleys. Petunia even looked a little sheepish when she noticed Harry, dumbfounded and staring at his 'room.'

"Well, we thought you were getting a little old to be wearing Dudley's old things, and I had a little time today near the second-hand store." Petunia grew a little frustrated, but try as she might she couldn't escape the compulsion to explain herself to the shocked eyes and open face of her seven-year-old nephew.

"I hadn't been in a second-hand store in ages and missed bargain shopping. Lily and I used to have so much fu—" Eyes clouding in what looked like a mixture of pain and anger, she jerked her head away and marched off, muttering about getting supper ready.

Seriously weirded out but ready to ride this new wave of olive branches as far as it would carry him, Harry wandered toward the kitchen to help prepare the evening meal. He set the table again, prepared a salad, poured drinks, and just had the time to set the tea on to boil when Vernon returned from work, grumbling about a foreign account. The Dursley patriarch put his coat away, removed his shoes, glanced in the mirror to straighten his mustache and pat his waist _("Time to slim-down a bit!")_, and made his way into the warmly lit dining room.

"Pet! You'll never guess who I ran int— Cor! Something smells good!" The now-drooling Vernon's loud proclamation prompted a mad scuttle down the stairs for Dudley, and as one father and son sat at the table, said grace, and began to inhale great wedges of the pizzas Petunia had pulled from the oven. Between bites Vernon recounted his day at the office and complimented the cooking, ignoring Harry entirely while complimenting Dudley on another successful day at school. That is, until Petunia explained The Incident.

"And then Headmaster told me he's been bullying other children for most of the year! Oh, Vern, what are we going to do?" Uncle Vernon's face had been growing more severe by the second, until as he turned toward Dudley (whose nervous expression suggested to Harry that his world had turned completely topsy-turvy) he looked to be made of stone.

"Dudley, I'm very disappointed in you. You will go to your room at once and think about what you did wrong today."

"But Daa—" Dudley's instinctive whinge cut off as Vernon Dursley raised his voice for what had to be the first time in a year at his son.

"Enough! You will go to your room!" Dudley, still relying on his instincts, screwed up his face and began to bawl. Panting as though he'd run a mile, the elder Dursley gripped his son gently but firmly by the arm and dragged him up the stairs, screaming all the way. Harry took the opportunity to clear his place at the table and sneak back to his cupboard to think about his life so far.

* * *

It was this more pensive Harry who sat for a while on his closet cot, trying desperately to wrap his mind around the changes in his recent home life. He was just in the middle of his third attempt to wake up by pinching himself on the arm when he once again spotted the book. Remembering in a strangely grown-up way his silent promise to look closely at this new form of magic, Harry brushed his finger over the Mark on his forehead and then flipped the gleaming silver catch.

Curiously enough, the book seemed to direct his attention to a chapter he had not yet read (despite his memories of flipping through to the last page on several different occasions). Scrunching up his nose in concentration, Harry began to read:

_Charter Magic is not given to simply one form of expression. Individual Marks may be drawn, sung, whistled, rang, carved, spoken, named, or any combination of the above. The process of linking a Mark from the Charter and a sounded, gestured, or inscribed symbol for that Mark is called Articulation, and it behooves the young and aspiring Charter Mage to learn at least some music, to accompany the hand-gestures, drawings, and speech by which Marks may be called forth._

_To this end, the author has included the following simple and relatively harmless Marks to practice whistling into being. Students will refer to page 1106 of the index._

Reading through the few pages of 'homework' included by whoever had written the magic book, Harry almost immediately hit upon a huge roadblock to his progress as a mage. He had never learned to whistle. Still, what better time to try was there than the present?

Closing his eyes in concentration, the boy went through the focused exercise he now recognized as reaching into the Charter and, picturing the one time he had witnessed Uncle Vernon whistling on his way to work, he pursed his lips and blew while simultaneously drawing out the Charter Mark for a slight gust of wind.

Nothing happened. But, for just a second, Harry felt as though the Mark had been inches from responding to his call. After sitting for a moment and thinking hard about the feeling of the Mark as it pushed towards his pursed lips, Harry took a deep breath and tried again. This time, starting as an almost noiseless trill, the Mark came freely and easily. The soft chime of Charter Magic hung in the air, a ringing that quickly grew in intensity and sharpness until it easily filled the cupboard and—door or no—spilled out into the hall beyond, bringing with it a gust of pure, fresh, mountain air which swirled and eddied its way around the entire house.

Petunia's potted plants rustled, losing a few leaves apiece. The living room drapes blew into a tangle, Petunia gave a startled screech from the upstairs shower, and Dudley and Vernon, who had been in the midst of a powerful row, quieted immediately. Harry closed the book immediately, turned his light bulb off, and pretended to be asleep, a slight smile on his face.

* * *

Author's Note: (Insert standard authorial gripe about line breaks and uploads here)

Well, that's it for this update. Still getting set up to adventure, but a few interesting bits and pieces hither and yon.

Lupine Horror: There is definitely something to your review. I won't give it away, but _I do_ have a plan for that particular bit of magic exploration.

Review if you like, I always welcome responses.


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